Friday, February 19, 2010

don’t flatter yourself, mr.bhagat

chetan bhagat declared on twitter today that he’s finally come to the conclusion that he’s a complete idiot. ha ha.

i think not.

a cursory glance through his body of barf (if you can bear to stomach even that) should be enough for the average reader to recognize him for what he is – a machiavellian perversion of literature released upon the indian readership to wean us away from books forever.

he’s probably the lynch pin of a giant conspiracy by kindle. or by the evil minions who sell us ‘value added services’ on our mobile phones.

think about it. he reads exactly like sms spam. the kind you get on (ick!) valentine’s day, or (yuck!) friendship day, or (huh?) women’s day, heavily garnished with fucked up spelling, zero grammar and smileys for punctuation. the folks who can read that junk and be moved to do anything less than projectile vomit are clearly made of sterner stuff than i am.

the menu card at my guest house in gurgaon reads better than mr.bhagat. tucked away in its list of unpretentious indian/continental/chinese fare are what i can only assume to be the cook’s specials, viz, staffed parathas with crud and pickels, toast with jam and batter, anyway maggy, massla poppad, sikh kabab, paneer batter massla, matter paneer, bucumber salad, batter chicken, matten curry, chicken munchur, american and chines choupsey and plane milk. at the end, it sweetly signs off with ‘at your sirvice :)’

@oi, songstress! you have so many fans at my office! and i am working hard at making everybody i know listen to your lovely song in the hope that you'll choose to let me lock you up for my listening pleasure instead of meg ;pps: the cook's food is not half as mindboggling as his spelling.

@cc, that's my favourite one as well. though plane milk gave it some tough competition :D

thirty, female, single, living in mumbai. i drink copious cups of filter coffee, collect the mandatory festival packs of chocolate, negotiate with the cats for a corner of the couch by the window and squash in between a pile of books, my lap top and a bowl of pop corn. then i have a long think about life. i get paid to do this. my remaining time i spend acquiring the life experience necessary to mastermind my mid life crisis. this i do not get paid to do, and can therefore do absolute justice to.